


Violence in Your Heart

by TheStarlingsRedstart



Series: His Lordship Requests [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 18th Century, BDSM, Blowjobs, Brief Alcohol Mention, Burnplay, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Mostly Pwp, No Aftercare, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, gratuitous references to historical clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29587215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStarlingsRedstart/pseuds/TheStarlingsRedstart
Summary: "Did you miss me?" It is almost a snarl, and though only afternoon, she can smell the whisky on his breath.She hesitates, unsure of what to answer, and his grip around her throat tightens. "Did you?"Black spots are dancing before her eyes, she has to choke out the words."Y-yes. Sir."A sequel of sorts to Your Innocence is Mine, but should work well enough on its own too
Relationships: Unnamed Maid OC/Unnamed Lordling OC
Series: His Lordship Requests [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173704
Kudos: 2





	Violence in Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Content Note: this story contains graphic descriptions of one person deliberately causing burns to another's skin.

**She** The next few days, she sees little of him. He is away to town, or in his room and being attended by William, who mentions nothing out of the ordinary, and her days are filled, as always, with emptying grates and mending stockings and replacing buttons and bringing up refreshments and a thousand things that his Lordship and the family require. On the third night, she sneaks back to the library and, after some digging, finds a volume by the Marquis de Sade. It proves rather more enlightening, though with the lordling being so quiet she's starting to wonder if she'll ever have use for her new knowledge at all.

Then, some days later, on her way downstairs she suddenly gets snatched from the hallway in the guest wing, and dragged into a room. It's the lordling, though she barely has time to make out his face before she is pinned against a wall, iron grips around her wrist and throat, teeth digging into her neck.

"Did you miss me?"

It is almost a snarl, and though only afternoon, she can smell the whisky on his breath. She hesitates, unsure of what to answer, and his grip around her throat tightens.

"Did you?"

Black spots are dancing before her eyes, she has to choke out the words.

"Y-yes. Sir."

His grip loosens, ever so slightly.

**He** "Of course you did."

His mouth is close to her ear as he impatiently tears away her kerchief.

"Have you been touching yourself, thinking about me, hm? Like a good little whore?"

He is fondling her breasts, mouthing his way across the soft skin of her neck and shoulders, enjoying the view, though he has a feeling the latter could be improved if she were to lace her stays more tightly. The image of her, one hand between her legs, the other on her breasts, convulsing while she is thinking of him, has played a not insignificant role in his own fantasies recently.

**She** Shivers spreading out from where his mouth is touching her skin, making her forget how words work for a moment. She shudders, bites her lower lip.

"Yes, Sir."

Flashes of memory have been winding their way through her mind, the sharpness of his teeth, his erect cock pressing into her from behind, the low growl of his voice. She has been carefully avoiding the question of how she feels about it all.

"Good. Now get down."

She not so much kneels as allows her knees to give in, and sinks to the floor. He is already undoing his breeches, and she wets her lips to better receive him. He lines his cock up with her mouth and puts a hand on the back of her head.

"Go ahead, little whore."

She parts her lips and he pushes in. Like last time, he pays no heed to whether she is comfortable, but it seems less... deliberate this time. His rhythm is less precise, less methodical, instead there is a kind of sloppy brutality to the thrusts. This is not, like last time, to put her in her place; it's about his pleasure, and his pleasure only. An especially deep thrust once again brings tears to her eyes.

**He** Her mouth is so wet, so eager, so obedient.

"Damn right, little whore," he mutters, "take it. Take it all, like someone like you is supposed to, it's what you're good for after all," and he pushes all the way in and holds her there for a second and when he lets go there is wetness shining on both her cheeks and he can feel warm satisfaction spreading inside him.

**She** His words are raining down on her, each of them a sharp sting and yet part of her doesn't want him to stop, wants to drown in his voice and never come back to the surface.

"I'll show you exactly what you're good for," he growls, his normally crisp enunciation just slightly blurred by drink.

He holds her head in both hands and begins to fuck her face, fuck her throat in earnest, she is clutching his breeches, trying to keep her balance, trying not to choke, tears streaming down the sides of her face now, how much longer can she take this? She has a feeling she's about to find out.

**He** He's thrusting into her mouth, deep and harsh, and goddamn, she's taking it like the bloody whore that she is, he's got his fingers buried in her hair and he can feel her convulse as she chokes on his cock at an especially deep thrust. He pulls back, tilts her head up slightly, she's a fucking mess, face streaked with tears and spittle, lips swollen, her eyes looking at him wide and – and how it pleases him to see this – full of something like fear.

**She** He lets off for a moment, does not immediately push her back down, so she moves to draw back and catch her breath for a mo–

His hand is sudden and sharp and burns on her cheek, this wasn't just to put her in her place, this was to hurt her, and it did, and she can feel more tears welling up in her eyes but then he's already pushing his cock back into her mouth and there's no room left for gasps or sobs.

Through the haze of pain and shock she can hear him murmuring above her.

**He** That little bitch, what did she think she was going to do, talk back at him? She's a fucking servant and he's her fucking master and she's going to fucking do what she's told to, and not stop until he fucking allows her to, and if she’s going to disobey she better expect to be fucking punished, the fucking whore.

He shoves her back, then grabs her throat with both hands and tightens his grip.

**She** She is limp, his grip the only thing keeping her upright but it's cutting off her air, she can't breathe, she can't move, her ears are ringing, she can't –

She finds herself slumped in a heap on the ground, her ears ringing, the lordling gone, no, those are his shoes, he's across the room, doing something with the fireplace...

She must have let out a noise, for he turns around and fixates her with his gaze. His eyes are hard, and icy cold.

**He** He gestures toward the writing desk.

"Sit. Lift your skirts."

She obeys, spreads her legs. Even now, she's glistening wet down there. He lifts the hot poker and presses it down, watches the pale flesh of her thigh turn red, then does the same again at a different angle. Branded with his initial, that should keep her reminded of whom she owes her obedience to.

He looks up at her face. She is white, shaking, but silent. Good.

**She** He looks her over, then pushes two fingers all the way up her cunt and now she does get loud, lets out a howl that is both pain and reluctant arousal, tries to angle her hips to let him in deeper, the burns on her skin flaring up as she tenses the muscles beneath.

This isn’t just violence, this is a new, twisted kind of cruelty that disturbs and terrifies her to her very core, and the worst part is, _she doesn’t want him to stop_.

**He** The desperate little slut she. That noise though, that can't be had. He grabs hold of her with his free hand, smothers her head into his chest to keep her quiet as he keeps fucking her with the other.

**She** She clings to him, part of her glad that he is wearing wool and not silk, which her tears would have ruined, his torso a warm, solid cliff in the flood of pain and agony that is threatening to overwhelm her. She can feel his fingers moving inside her again and she squirms and mewls against his chest, desperate for him to touch her right there, she'd beg if she could muster the words.

She braces herself against the table with both hands, bucks her hips up against his fingers, her stays tight around her heaving ribcage and then his fingers do touch her just right and the heat that's been building in her lower abdomen sweeps through her entire body, she can feel herself pulsing around his fingers, a muffled, drawn-out groan against his chest, her limbs left tingling, all tension gone from her body

**He** It takes him by surprise when she suddenly convulses in his arms, arches backwards in his grip and then goes limp, her eyes closed.

His cock twitches at the sight and he lays her down flat on the desk, grabs her legs and begins to fuck her cunt, paying mind to nothing but the sensation of her, hot and wet and tight around him.

**She** She is floating through a haze of pain and pleasure both, removed from her own body, when the feeling of him pushing in hits her and she snaps back into reality. Still sensitive down there, the friction is almost too much, but he has her thighs hoisted up around his hips and is firmly holding them in place, and they feel too limp to attempt any sort of resistance.

With every thrust he hits the burns on her leg and sends a new wave of pain through her, a single focus point in her clouded consciousness. She makes a small sound that could be a moan, or a sob, or a hiccup, and feels his grip tighten; she’s sure to bear bruises from that tomorrow.

**He** His thrusts are becoming faster as he feels himself get close, he adjusts his handle on her to go even deeper and then she moans beneath him, she’s hurt and limp and come apart, and somehow still enjoying this, her face a mess of half-dried tears and spittle, no sign now of the prim, proper, put-together image she usually presents to the world, instead he’s got a dishevelled, dissipated whore beneath him, for him to do with as he pleases.

He pulls out just as his balls tighten, and cums all over her thighs, her clit, her shift, marking her as the dirty slut that she is, marking her as his property, his own, his, it’s written into her very skin now, she belongs to him.

**She** Still adrift, she feels him pull out of her, feels herself slowly coming back to the world. His cum is hot and wet on her legs and part of her is trying to remember if there's another clean shift in her chest upstairs, how far away the next washday is.

She opens her eyes and sees him above her, panting, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His eyes are closed, the usual condescension in his expression swept away by pure, unbridled pleasure. Over the coming days and weeks, her thoughts will keep returning to this moment, to his expression, to the fact that she is the one who made it appear there, to the fact that she wants to do so again.

But right now, he pulls away from her, draws a deep breath, pushes his hair back, and surveys her, the coldness already creeping back into his glance.

**He** He takes in the sight before him, and finds it satisfactory. Dishevelled, messy, defiled, she looks just like the fallen woman that he is making of her. Worse – or better, really – she clearly likes it.

How far will he be able to take her?, he wonders. How much before she cries out in pain without the pleasure, before she begs him to stop? He is determined to find out.

The next day, he rides into town to hire a company of workmen. For an additional two sovereigns, the foreman assures him that they will be discreet.

**She** On the first few days after, the mark on her thigh stings with every move. She's taken one of the lordling's older shirts and made it into bandages – she is in charge of the laundry, so who is going to confront her about it?

Each sting is a sharp reminder of what he's done to her, what he will no doubt do again. And it is a reminder, too, of the attention he has chosen to pay her, and of which she cannot help but want more.


End file.
